


Merry Christmas, B*tches!

by knowledgekid



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Christmas fic, Fluff, Margo is also really into Christmas, Multi, except this is in Fillory, margo is sweary, no really she'd probably be into Hallmark movies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 08:36:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17056445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowledgekid/pseuds/knowledgekid
Summary: Margo makes everyone wake up at dawn to exchange presents. Because we all know she is really, really, really into that Christmas thing. Total fluff and happy feels.





	Merry Christmas, B*tches!

“Merry Christmas, bitches!” Margo shouted happily as Eliot and Quentin stumbled into her sunroom. It was approximately six-thirty in the morning. She’d had a full Fillorian breakfast laid out — mostly a full English breakfast but without the blood pudding and with real bacon, plus wine — and made some poor soul drag a pine tree all the way up here, then hang it all over with flowers. Quentin decided that first, Margo had been that child always waking up at four a.m for Santa, and second, she had grown into a woman who would, given the chance, become obsessed with Hallmark Christmas specials. 

“I thought we agreed to call it Solstice,” Eliot yawned. He was shirtless. So was Quentin. 

Margo put her hands on her hips. She was wearing a fluffy wool robe and fluffy wool slippers and perfect hair and makeup. “Ring world, bitch. No such thing as Solstice.” 

“Can’t we just call it The Holidays?” Quentin suggested. 

“No. It’s Christmas, asshats.” 

“But um, Fillory is like, officially atheist?” Quentin said. 

“It’s. A. Cultural. Thing,” Margo said. She was beginning to clip her words. The boys took the hint and sat down to breakfast, where everyone mostly drank instead of eating, because no one really wants to eat a full Fillorian breakfast at six thirty, including Fillorians. 

“Okay, bitches, time for presents!” Margo finally squealed. She set her wine back on the table. They were chugging it again, because you mostly couldn’t taste it that way, so everyone was well on their way to getting smashed before the sun had cleared the mountains around Whitespire. 

“Oh my god, I don’t know if I’ve ever started day-drinking this early,” Eliot said. 

“I hate to break it to you baby, but you have,” Margo told him. 

He kicked her under the table. She kicked him back. 

“If you two would stop playing footsie,” Quentin said. “OW!” He pulled back from the table as two feet, one of them boney and bare, the other clad in a very fluffy slipper, nailed him in his shins at almost the same time. “It’s Christmas! You can’t be mean!”

“Ha! You admit it’s Christmas!” Margo said. 

“Sure. Fine. It’s Christmas. Just don’t fucking kick me again with your pointy little toes.” 

Margo giggled. Eliot laughed.   
Quentin sulked. 

“Okay, if Quentin will stop making his sulky face, we all agreed for presents, we’re fucking monarchs and we already have every single thing we could possibly want, SO,” she paused to breathe, “we’d get each other something we wanted from our childhoods. Who wants to go first?” 

She was sitting on the edge of her chair and practically bouncing. Eliot and Quentin looked at each other. “You get the first present, Bambi,” Eliot said. “Quentin, you want to do the honors?” 

He and Eliot had agreed that the easiest and most dignified way to do this was to have servants bring them down. So Quentin went into the hallway, grabbed the paper-wrapped wooden box from a manservant, and came back in. 

“Well?!” Margo said. He handed her the box. “Open it,” he said. 

She tore into it like a sugar-crazed five-year-old. 

“I had to describe it to them,” Quentin explained. “So it doesn’t look quite right. But they got the idea and it’s okay if you don’t —” 

“Oh, _Quentin_ ,” Margo said. She opened the box and took out what was unmistakably a pink teddy bear. When she looked at him, she was hugging the bear fiercely and beginning to tear up. “Thank you, Q, baby. Thank you so much. You remembered.” She kissed him hard and retreated back to her chair. She did not let go of the bear. 

And he did remember. When she was six, she’d had a pink teddy bear named Mr. Bear. (“I didn’t name it, okay?!” she had said). She’d had Mr. Bear her entire life and dragged him everywhere with her. That is, until her mother, in a rare and misplaced fit of maternal instinct, had decided Margo was too big to have a Mr. Bear. Margo had tried screaming. Margo had tried tantrums. Margo had tried crying and crying and crying. But no one had listened. And she had never seen Mr. Bear again. 

“Okay, okay, okay, Bambi got Mr. Bear back,” Eliot said. “We are full of joy and cheer. My turn!”

Margo’s grin widened, if that was even possible. “You know how your parents had a farm?”

“Oh, must you?” Eliot said. 

“And you, El, used to read all those cowboy books. You told me once that when you were eight, your life’s ambition was to grow up and be a cowboy. And when you asked your father why you didn’t use horses on the farm, he just laughed at you.”

“Do we have to hash through the dark pits of my childhood?” Eliot asked in a bored voice. 

¨So I got you a pony,” Margo said happily. “BRING IT IN!”

Suddenly her French doors opened and a white-liveried servant lead in a pure black colt. It was young, still long-legged with babyhood, with four white socks and a white star. “A monarch needs a good-looking horse,” she said. “And he’s the best one in Fillory. Aren’t you, baby?” she cooed. 

“Yep,” the baby horse lisped. “Mama said so. Oh wait, oops. I forgot.” And he turned and did a sort of bow thingie at Quentin. Margo’s laughter rang through the room. 

“No, silly, _that’s_ High King Eliot,” she told the colt, pointing. “The regal-looking one.” 

“Hey!” Quentin said. The colt did the bow thing again, and this time almost fell over. 

“Wait, you got me a _talking horse_?” Eliot said. 

“Well, you always bitch about your horse. Tryon here will take a while to grow up but when he does, he’ll be the best horse in Fillory. Look at those lines and his canon bones. Pure gorgeousness. He’s perfect.” 

“If you say so,” Eliot said. “It’s nice to meet you, Tryon.” 

The colt squeaked with happiness, barreled over to Eliot, nearly knocking over the tree, and nuzzled him enthusiastically. Margo nearly fell off her chair laughing. Quentin inched backwards. Horses still sort of freaked him out. 

“Okay, baby, you can go back to your mama,” Margo told the colt. “Tell her High King Eliot and High Queen Margo and even King Quentin were very pleased to meet you. Right, King Quentin?” 

“Um, yeah,” Quentin said. 

“And tell her you behaved very well,” Margo said. 

The colt did a little sort of prance and jigged out behind the groom, his hooves echoing on Margo’s marble floor. 

“I cannot believe you got me a pony,” Eliot said. 

“You always wanted a pony,” Margo said happily. 

“But I have a pony!”

“Oh, come on, you hate your horse. You were just bitching about how it kept shying and was refusing to cross that stream yesterday.” 

“Truth,” Eliot said. “Okay. I always wanted a pony. And he is a gorgeous pony, if a little enthusiastic.” 

“Oh, he’ll grow out of that,” Margo said with a wave of her hand. “Quentin! It’s your turn!” 

He looked at her blankly. 

“It’s under the tree, dumbass!” Margo said. “Where all presents should have been! Well, except for Eliot’s. His wouldn’t fit.” 

Quentin found a small box tagged with his name in Margo’s fanciest calligraphy. She had somehow managed to wrap it in parchment. The slim, wooden box inside contained — 

“Is there some sort of theme going on here?” Quentin asked, holding up the shiny silver horseshoe. 

Margo cuffed him on the shoulder. “No, dumbass. I got you something you wanted from your childhood. What did you love more than anything when you were a kid?” 

“Fillory,” he answered immediately. “But —” 

“Yeah, yeah, you got Fillory. So I had to get you something awesome and special and precious from Fillory. So this is one of only four known shoes ever found from the Cozy Horse.” 

“You got me a shoe from the Cozy Horse?!” 

“Thank Tic. He’s the one who tracked the sonofabitch down for me. You have no idea how difficult that was. The dwarves had it. I had to trade my pink vibrator for it, which is how much I fucking love you, Quentin Coldwater.” 

Eliot snorted. “Oh, it’s not like you don’t have another.”

“Shut the fuck up, Eliot. I just gave you a pony.” 

“This is amazing, Margo. We should like, put it in a museum or something. Do we have a museum?” 

“I don’t fucking know.”

“The Cozy Horse,” Quentin marveled. He held it, examined it from every angle. “I always wanted to see the Cozy Horse.”

“Now you have the next best thing,” Margo said. 

He kissed her on the cheek and slid his arm around the waist of her robe. “You’re amazing,” Quentin told her. 

“I know,” she replied, and kissed him back. 

“PDA, yawn,” Eliot said. 

“Quentin, give him a present or he’ll keep sulking,” Margo said. 

Quentin retrieved the other box and plopped it on Eliot’s lap. “I hope you like it,” he said nervously. “I got it for you forever ago and I’ve been hoarding it ever since.” 

Eliot tore the wrapping open. His eyes bulged. “Oh my god.” He dissolved into laughter. 

“What?” Margo demanded. 

Laughing so hard he was nearly crying, he held up a slim case labeled Urban Decay. It was an eyeshadow palette. “When the fuck did you get this?” he asked. 

“Last time I was on earth. I picked it up at Sephora when I got one for Margo. I figured you needed your own. And I know you always wanted makeup as a kid.” 

“I did!” Eliot said. “I always wanted makeup! And there was nofuckingway I was ever going to get it!”

“Will you stop stealing mine now?” Margo asked. 

“Yes, but I’ll still make you do it for me,” he said. 

“Fair,” she agreed. 

“There’s eyeliner in that box too,” Quentin said. “I had them help me pick it out.” 

The idea of some poor Sephora salesgirl helping Quentin select eyeliner — and for Eliot, no less — sent Margo laughing so hard she swore she was going to pee herself and kill Quentin if she did. 

“Okay, okay, Bambi. If you can get yourself up off the floor — no, don’t bother. Stay there. It’ll work better. I’ll be right back.” Eliot got up and left the room. Margo looked at Quentin, confused, but stayed put. 

Eliot came back holding something small and black. “Okay. You said you begged. You said you pleaded. But your parents refused to give in. Well, today, Bambi, you finally get your puppy.” Eliot held out a warm bundle of sleeping fur with a bow around its neck. “He’s eight weeks old and will grow up to basically be a German Shepherd-wolf looking thing. They call them Fillorian Greathounds and they’re known for their strength, courage, and total loyalty to their owner. You can name him whatever you want and — did you hear a word I said?”

Margo had taken the puppy and cuddled it close to her face. “He _smells like a puppy_!” she squealed. 

“Oooh, let me smell,” Quentin said. “Oh, he so totally does. Puppy breath is the best.” 

“He’s so cuddly and warm and fuzzy and — look how _big_ his paws are! Oh, you’re going to be a big boy, aren’t you, baby! You are, you’re going to be mama’s big baby! Oh, Eliot!” she said. She’d dropped Mr. Bear in favor of her new fuzzball. “I’m going to call you Dagoo!” 

“Like the harpooner from Moby Dick?” Quentin asked. 

“No, like Dana Scully’s last dog in _The X-Files_ ,” Eliot said. “But we applaud your literary tastes, Quentin.” 

“Okay, one more present,” Eliot said. He came back with a box and handed it to Quentin. “Open it,” he said, but remained standing in front of him. 

Quentin slowly opened the box. Inside was a white shirt, a vest, pants, and what looked like phaser. “Is this —” 

“It’s a Han Solo outfit. And it’s not in your size,” Eliot said. 

“Why — oh. Ohhhhhh,” Quentin said. 

“One-time deal. And Princess Leia is decidedly not invited.” 

“Hey!” Margo said. 

“Shut it,” Eliot said. “This is Q’s Christmas present, not yours. You got a puppy, Bambi. Q gets Han Solo. Deal.”

“I do have one vibrator left in Fillory. Plus I now have the cutest puppy in the world, yes I do!” She lifted the bundle of fuzz again and hugged it. “And a Mr. Bear. You guys are the best, do you know that?”

“Happy Christmas, one and all,” Eliot said, holding his glass aloft. 

“Ugh, do I have to actually _drink_ the toast?” Quentin asked. 

“It is customary, yes,” Eliot said. 

So they all drank, Margo with one hand still holding her puppy. The drinking turned to chugging. 

“What better way to spend Christmas than drunk with your friends?” Eliot asked. 

“Getting drunk with your friends and getting someone else to housebreak your new puppy,” Margo said. 

“I was afraid the horse would shit on your floor,” Eliot laughed. 

“He’s far too well-mannered for that! What kind of horse do you think I’d get you?!” 

“The kind that shits on your floor,” Eliot said. 

She kicked him under the table again. “Shut up, Han,” she said. 

And with a sinking feeling, Eliot suddenly realized she would never let him live down Quentin’s present.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are love! Tell me what you think!


End file.
